Through Black Tunnels
by Blankke
Summary: "John, run." Sherlock said sternly. And that's just what John did. This was no game. It was a bloody awful nightmare.
1. Four Days Late

Oh my, this is quite an old fanfic that I'm now sharing with you guys. It had been written way before BBC Sherlock season 2 was released :-P

So now I edited it here and there in a way that updates it season-wise and makes it appear more polished :-D

My god I'm only writing Sherlock fanfics. :-O

I promise i'll start writing about other things!

Unless you don't me to. Then I won't, of course. Haha, I'm such a masochist.

P.S: I can't really get into character with Sherlock in case you haven't noticed. At least not 100%. He's too smart for my simple brain. TT_TT

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><p>It'd been 6 o'clock in the afternoon when John kindly informed his flatmate that he would go buy some chinese for dinner.<p>

But Sherlock, not paying much attention to the man at the time, had dismissed him impatiently with a wave of his hand. He expected John would be back on time with the warm oriental meal in separate plastic bags, ready to be only half consumed by either of them.

Though not in a lifetime would've Sherlock been able to deduce, not even _guess_, that John would only return at 5 o'clock in the morning, _four_ days later and so battered up.

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><p>Sherlock held the small dart in his hands. Funny little thing he'd made in these last few days. Unlike John, he'd not been idle. What he'd invented out of boredom had enough sedatives to knock an immense body-builder unconscious and enough poison to kill a small bird. Though, of course, both the former and the latter could be adjusted to the user's liking.<p>

Then suddenly, upon hearing a sudden and loud _thump_ by the flat's entrance, Sherlock rolled his eyes and carefully placed the dart on the living room's desk, unappreciative of the interruption. Well ok, maybe it hadn't bothered him all that much. There was finally _something_ going on since John had 'abandoned' him! With is brain's gears spinning, he thought back to the previous sound. He was confident the 'noise' hadn't just been a clumsy knock by some drunk, desperate client. He frowned, feeling a little disappointed. No, definitely not a client, the amount of sounds made at that time was the result of something much heavier than a hand hitting the door. _Therefore the only logical explanation would be-_

Sherlock rubbed his now empty hands together. His decision had left him somewhat apprehensive, forcing him to sweat, even if only a little. He took a deep breath and rushed to the door, forgetting only momentarily to separate himself from emotions.

_John…_

The consulting detective barely opened the door when a body tumbled in.

It was John. Or maybe what was left of him. _No, he's still alive. Look at him!_

It was true, John Watson was still alive, but his torn clothes and bruised body could've made anyone think otherwise. Sherlock had tried to keep himself calm and steady, but the more he analyzed the man's body, the more he worried. First thing the detective noticed was the considerable amount of weight loss. Sherlock wondered how John had made it from wherever he was all the way to Baker Street, because evidently his captors had not bothered to drop him off anywhere near. Then, starting from the head and making his way down, he saw purple spots on John's forehead, mouth and cheek from where he'd been beaten. Eyeing the rest of John's body, there was about 5 or 6 lacerations on the arms and legs and other cuts around the body, though not as deep, all of them at least two days old. Whoever had done this to John had clearly wanted him alive.

"John, wake up." Sherlock decided to shake his friend awake as gently as he could manage. "John Watson, you need to wake up." Sherlock persisted. John began to mutter something. Thank goodness. Sherlock took advantage of this moment to drag him further inside the flat, closing the door when he was all the way in, not minding the looks and frowns people had given him outside. He spun around to see John opening his eyes briefly and moaning softly.

"Sherlock?" The soldier groaned weakly, in pain. From his searching eyes, Sherlock could tell his friend was seeing everything doubled, and was probably suffering from one hell of a headache.

"Don't worry, John, everything's going to be fine." It hadn't been the most original and non-cliché thing he could say, but it really didn't matter to both of them. Sherlock kneeled by his friend, placing his head on his lap. "I'm going to take you to a hospital-"

"Mori-Moriarty." The doctor murmured. He was already starting to slip into unconsciousness again.

Sherlock blinked, rationalizing the unexpected information. "I know." He eventually said, when it all settled in his head. Sherlock then heard the click clacking of shoes coming down the stairs and the loud gasp of an elderly woman. "Mrs. Hudson!" He uttered with urgency. It was just who he wanted to see.

Mrs. Hudson stared in shock. "Is he-"

"Ms. Hudson, call the cab. _Fast!_" The other woman, without another word, ran to the door and did as she was told while reminding everybody that she wasn't the housekeeper. Sherlock turned once again back to his friend, who wasn't awake anymore. The procedure of awakening him had to be repeated. When John finally opened his eyes again, Sherlock advised him, "Sorry, John. I need you to try not to sleep. And you might not like this next part." He apologized, picking John up the bridal way. They might've even laughed at this if they were in any other situation. But they weren't. John grunted in protest at the way his body moved, thus making him feel uncomfortable, but he didn't have enough energy to actually complain out loud.

"Just this once, Sherlock. I'm the landlady, mind you. But do make sure John's taken care of!" She called out worriedly to the men as both entered the car.

"St. Bart's Hospital please." The detective instructed as he helped John buckle up in the backseat, seeing that the other man was trying not to doze off. Noting that the ride would be bumpy, Sherlock let his friend lean his head on his shoulder and kept him awake through the ride.

For the first time in his life, the detective Sherlock Holmes felt panic, or at least something near panic. But it was definitely unnerving. And he detested it.

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><p>Soon enough John Watson had been admitted into the hospital. The nurses had asked what Sherlock Holmes' relationship to John was, and if he had any relatives. The detective had answered flatmate and friend for the first question, and said that John had a sister named Harriet who was currently out of the country.<p>

With the paperwork out of the way, Sherlock was now by John's side in his hospital room. He lied on the bed with the IV attached to his bandaged up arm in deep sleep after finally been given the chance to rest now that he was in professional care. And all the while Sherlock stared at him, wondering.

Whatever the reason Moriarty had done this to John, Sherlock vowed he'd discover and have his revenge in way or another.

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><p>It's late and I want to go to bed hahaha.<p>

I just wanted to explain one little thing before I go.

Remember how I said that Harriet wasn't in the country? Well that's just an excuse, because I didn't really want to include her in the story :-P (Sorry! Don't hate me for this :-D)


	2. White Room

**Ack! My God! You guys are amazing! Thank you such much for adding the story to your favorites, subscribing and reviewing! My love is being sent to you all right now ^_^**

**This chapter has been pretty much re-written due to some things my editor (sis) told me to change. :D Hope it's better now. It is –admittedly- a pretty relaxed chapter, so I hope you don't mind the mellowness of it. But I wanted to give poor Watson a chapter of rest. I think I might spice things up in the upcoming chapters of the story to make up for it. Let's see how things go.**

**Reviews are encouraged and very much appreciated :_D**

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><p>When John woke up, he saw pure whiteness, white walls, white bed sheets, white windows, and the white floor. But suddenly, as his eyes searched the space, he found a familiar blob of dark colors in the midst of it all.<p>

"I see you're awake." Sherlock said, evidently happy when he saw John moving his head to face him.

"S-Sherlock." John barely whispered as he tried to say this, but Sherlock heard him nonetheless. He deduced from his friend's facial expression that he wanted to know what was going on, but couldn't find the energy within him to say so. So Sherlock thought it would be best to explain to his friend about how he found him at the door, and how he had taken him to a hospital.

_John's taking this in pretty well._ Sherlock thought, noticing that he had remained serious and surprisingly calm throughout the whole explanation. "And that's that." Sherlock said when he finished.

There was more to be said, really, but the rest of the details were more personal than anything else.

The detective remembered that not long after staying with John in the hospital room, doctors and nurses had come in to start tending to Watson. At that moment they had –politely- asked Holmes to step outside for the moment, and so he had taken advantage of that time to go back home and gather some things. When he had returned, he explained John's conditions to Mrs. Hudson, taken a shower, grabbed a few clothes for both of them, picked up both their laptops (and the chargers), and finally, gone back to the hospital, where he waited in the waiting room until he was allowed back with his friend.

Sherlock was cut off from his thoughts when John groaned as he tried to say something else, but couldn't bring himself to do it due to a god-awful headache and a terrible nausea.

At that moment Sherlock thinking of asking John the question about Moriarty and what exactly he had done when the door opened.

A doctor walked in with a nurse by his side. He presented himself as Dr. Williams. He was an old, hairy man, and he seemed to be a happy soul. "Morning, you two, and sorry to interrupt." He smiled. "How're we doing today?" He said to his patient, while taking a look at the files he carried. The nurse also said good morning to both of them and proceeded to adjust John's bed so that he was somewhat in an upright position.

"I-I'm doing better. Just feel a little sick." John managed to answer with a quivery voice.

"Hmm, that's normal. It's due to the lack of food in your system. That will be taken care of in a minute. Now, about your conditions, since you haven't had the chance to be informed yet-"

John prepared himself for the worst.

"You've received some cuts on various parts of your body, though only a few of them were deep enough to need stitching, couple of bruises, nothing too serious." Dr. Williams explained. "The only things that would need more attention would be the bullet injury on the side of your head, the two ribs that are close to being fractured on your left side and your nutrition, since they barely gave you proper food, wherever you were."

John didn't stir. He'd expected himself to be in a worse state after what they had done to him in those four days.

"I know you're a tough man of military background, Mr. Watson, you're friend here told me." Said the doctor gesturing towards Sherlock. "So you'll do fine." He smiled. "If your body recovers well, you'll be home in less than a week. It's really only due to the nutrition. The rib injuries are usually something that can be healed at home in a time span of 5-6 weeks." He nodded affirmatively.

"R-right. T-that's not too bad, I suppose." Said John, suddenly remembering he had woken up with a headache. He dropped his head back completely on the bed and closed his eyes for a minute.

The doctor took this as a sign that now wasn't the time to talk, so he respected that and turned to the detective, starting a simple conversation out of politeness. "Strong friend you've got there, Mr. Holmes."

"Stronger than he knows." The detective said, while shaking the other man's hand. The doctor chuckled.

"Yes, yes. Now, about your nausea, Mr. Watson." He turned back to John, who had re-opened his eyes, "A nurse will come by with breakfast, but there's a cafeteria downstairs for you, Mr. Holmes, if you want."

"Thank you, but I guess I'm not as hungry now, doctor. I'll pick up some coffee later." Said the detective.

Dr. Williams just smiled and nodded. "I guess you're all right for now, chaps. I'll come knocking again when it's time for medications." With that the doctor turned to leave, just in time as an older nurse came in with the food cart. The previous nurse who had entered with the doctor stayed and helped the other nurse serve the food. The latter woman placed a tray of food in John's lap, and he thanked her –weakly- for it. In a minute, both were gone as soon as they had come, saying their proper goodbyes as they walked out the door.

All that time, Sherlock's eyes had never left his friend. Now he watched as John idly picked up a fork in shaky hands and tried to poke at the scrambled eggs on his plate, which kept slipping off every time he raised the silverware to his mouth.

"Damn it all." John whispered in frustration to himself as he tried on last time before settling into something more easier to grab: the bread. He chewed on it rather spitefully.

"They have enough money to get patients more expensive looking food." Sherlock thought out loud, reaching for his bag of items brought from home that had been placed on the floor by his feet. "Brought your computer in case you wanted to update your blog about your… Hospital adventures."

"T-thanks for that." John said as loud as he could, still chewing on that bread. Since when did eating require so much energy? He took a deep breath and carried on through his morning meal.

"Also brought my own computer, because I'd be immensely bored if I had not done so. Don't want me shooting the walls now, do you?" Sherlock said. Anyone who knew him on a personal level would know he was serious. With that said, Sherlock was about to grab his laptop in the bag when he felt his Blackberry in his pocket vibrate.

"Oh… What do we have here?" He murmured quietly to himself. He hoped John had been distracted enough not to hear that.

_Number unknown. Message: 'Hello, Sherlock. Miss me? JM'_

Perfect.

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><p><strong>Hope it wasn't too boring :P<strong>

**Also, Sherlock's talk with Jim will be in a new chapter, or else this one will get way too long.**


	3. The Video

**I would like to say thank you again for reading the story! I hope I've been living to the subscribers' expectations throughout the chapters, and I also hope I have stayed in character and kept you entertained until now :-D**

**Now things are starting to get... well... more _interesting_, in my opinion. ;-)**

**So, what do you think? Reviews are very welcome here!**

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><p>Sherlock had his phone in his hands when another message arrived: <em>Open your email, Sherlock. Oh, and fetch some earphones, you're going to need them. JM. <em>

"S-Sherlock, y-you all right?" Watson asked weakly from his bed.

Sherlock looked up from the Blackberry in his hands, unaware he had been frowning all the while. "Sorry… I'm going downstairs for a minute. Back in a sec. And finish your food." With out another word, Sherlock grabbed his computer, charger and a pair of earphones he had luckily brought with him and dashed out the door, leaving John Watson staring at him in confusion, still holding a half-finished bread in hand.

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><p>The cafeteria looked just as dull as the bedroom. There were windows only on the right side, giving a clear view of London, a food counter in the center, and less than ten people looking as dull as the place itself, each minding their own businesses, scattered throughout the place.<p>

"Ah, I seem to have lost my appetite." Sherlock muttered to himself, somewhat sarcastically as he found an empty table by the corner. He placed his computer on the dirty surface of the table and connected the charger to the outlet on the wall and it. He turned the laptop on and checked for emails, leaning forward in anticipation as he plugged the earphones on.

1 new email received. Subject: none. Sherlock clicked it open as the gears of his mind began to turn. His eyes narrowed as he read:

_**Open the attachment.**_

_**JM.**_

Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, did as the email told him and opened the attachment at the bottom of the page. It was a movie file. He turned the volume up a bit and played the video.

It started out dark and blurry. Whoever was filming this was using a bad quality camera, probably bought at a cheap local store without much thought and care. But where was Moriarty? As the video progressed, the images sharpened themselves and became brighter. It was evident that John was in the middle of it all –literally. He was in the center of three or four men dressed in dark clothes. His arms and legs were tied to a chair, and he was right under the flickering light of a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. His face and mouth were bloody, his clothes were torn and he looked worn out. Sherlock had deduced from John's wounds that the video had most likely been filmed at the beginning of John's captivity, probably around the end of the first only thing that the detective couldn't really make out was where exactly they were; he thought the place seemed dirty enough to be somewhere abandoned. _An old garage, or building? _

Suddenly, a voice was heard off screen. It was a very soft voice, not any older than Sherlock himself, even younger actually.

"Jim…" Sherlock mused out loud as the movie continued. Even if he couldn't really see him, the sound of Moriarty's squeaky voice gave him enough proof that he was there in person. He heard the man say: "What a pleasant surprise to have you here with me again! And where's your little detective friend, hm?"

"You would know." John answered angrily. He spat in front of him, where the consulting criminal must've been standing, though that only earned the doctor a punch on the face. Sherlock balled his fists slightly.

"Now, now, boys. Don't be so brutal. We've still got a couple of days left with him." Moriarty chuckled. But he stopped suddenly and his voice became serious. "You must know, John, that I'm not here to obtain information out of you."

"Then what the hell do you want?" John inquired, his voice shaky from the previous impact.

"Simply to mess you up in your last days alive, is all." Jim Moriarty said casually. "Do you think Sherlock will miss you? Do you think it will break his heart once he sees your dead body in the morgue?"

"Shut up." The soldier said from his chair, lowering his eyes as though he had just been defeated in combat.

Moriarty chuckled again. "Hmm. Anyways, I think that's enough, stop filming. Things are going to get pretty icky now-" He whispered, "Right, Sherlock Holmes?"

With that, the movie finished. Sherlock, feeling slightly disturbed, ran his hands through his hair. "Why is John still alive, then? Did you change your mind, Jim? Or is it something else…"

At that exact moment, Sherlock received another email that had no subject. He clicked it open and it said:

"_**You must be wondering why I let your little pet live. Doesn't matter, he can tell you how he managed to escape, for all I care. What's important is this: "I'll burn the heart out of you." Remember Sherlock? But now I changed the rules of the game a bit. Why don't we say John is the heart? I'll give you two weeks to try to figure out how to save him."**_

_**JM. **_

_**P.S Send John my regards. I had a great time with him.**_

The consulting detective lowered the computer screen and leaned back on his chair. The situation was a bit more complicated than he had previously imagined… Should he tell John about all this? No. There was too much doubt in his mind at the moment to make any kind of decision.

Sherlock stood up. What he really needed was some tea, and _a lot_ of time to sort things out.

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><p><strong>Well then! Hope you enjoyed the chapter :D (Somehow, it always ends in a sort of open ended way :-P)<strong>


	4. The Heart

**I will simply never find the right words to truly express how grateful I am for every alert, favorite, and review I get in "Bloody Surprise". Really! It's what keeps me updating. Guys, I seriously adore you (like that's not creepy at all). Once again, I'll be sending my love to you all this moment :D Hope you receive it. It's supposed to feel nice and warm hehehe. (You're all probably sick of reading me repeat this every single chapter :-P **_**Get on with it!**_** You must be thinking.) ANYWAYS haha.**

**I want to include more characters in this story, somehow…. Not entirely sure how I'm going to add them to the plot, though… **

**Reviews are welcome! ^_^**

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><p>Things were going fairly well those next few days.<p>

John was recovering rather rapidly, and a more recognizable energy and sense of humor were gradually returning to him. The only thing that put him off at times was when he felt the chest pains (due to the semi fractures) and sometimes –though very rarely- the itchy almost-healed-up cuts.

But things weren't looking so bright for Sherlock. Everyday only made him feel more miserable. Why? Not only did his brain deflate and rot in his head from a lack of things to challenge his mind (strangely there had been no cases), he still hadn't told Watson about the emails. Not a word. And even though he'd never thought he'd live to see the day, _guilt _was killing him from the inside out. But he didn't want his friend to worry needlessly; well, it wasn't the time for it anyway.

Sherlock and Watson still had around another week before they could really start panicking. But the detective kept mentally reminding himself he had everything under control, which was not entirely true, but he was trying to convince himself nonetheless.

Moriarty was making the detective_ dance_ again. That bastard.

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><p>It was around 4 in the afternoon when Dr. Williams knocked on the door and, after Sherlock opened it, casually invited himself in.<p>

It was another visit out of the many he'd done in the past six days. But instead of giving his patient an expected medical report, he said something new.

"Congratulations, I should say, Mr. Watson, for making it through these six days. I am glad that you are finally in healthier conditions, and therefore reached a state where you're allowed to go home. In about an hour or so, a nurse will come by and help get you on your way to the lobby. Then you'll just sign some release forms and be on your way."

John, for the first time during his stay at the hospital, genuinely smiled. He would finally be going home, and properly this time, not collapsing by the door as he'd done in the past. The thought of it made him shiver a little.

"Thank you, doctor, really. It was all thanks to your medical work." Watson said, as he adjusted his bed with the remote control to stay in an upright position.

The doctor chuckled heartily. "No, no. It was all due to your steel body, and the support of your friend."

Sherlock frowned, and it took great discipline from his part to not say anything that would ruin the moment. John could notice that and he smiled internally for the effort of his friend.

The doctor walked closer to the white bed and offered his hand, which John took and gave it shake that was still naturally weak yet more steady than before. "Was nice having a sturdy man like you as a patient. I would say until next time, but no one wants to hear that from a doctor, do they?"

Watson chuckled quietly. "No, I don't think so. But for the sake of politeness, yes, until next time."

Next was Holmes' turn for the cheesy goodbyes and 'see you laters'. Those were over in a quick minute, though both men never lacked friendliness and diplomacy.

As Dr. Williams headed out the door, Sherlock felt something in the pit of his stomach. Maybe it was a good time to tell John about those emails… Sherlock mentally berated himself. _At least wait until you get back home… Imagine how awkward the car ride will be._

"Sherlock?" John's voice interrupted the detective's thoughts. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Sherlock answered as casually as he could. "Just wondering why the nurse will bring over a wheelchair to take you to the lobby when you can perfectly walk there on your own."

John shrugged from his bed. There had been a small scar over his left eyebrow… _The lost bullet._ "Hospital policy, I guess. And a precaution so that I won't fall on the way out and sue them."

They laughed.

But then John remembered something. "Oh also, on the first day, well I was out cold during most of it-" He mumbled. "When we arrived at the hospital, did you-"

It didn't take much of Sherlock's deduction skills to know what that was about. "Yes I signed all of the paperwork for you. The doctors allowed me to take care of it. You're welcome." Sherlock said. John sighed in relief.

"Right. Thank you, Sherlock." John Watson said, giving the other man a nod.

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><p>The nurse that Dr. Williams was talking previously came over in exactly one hour and twenty-one minutes after the doctor's departure. Sherlock counted out of boredom. He had also gotten his and Watson's stuff back into the bag while they waited for him.<p>

The detective wasn't really surprised when he found out that the nurse was a young, clumsy, blonde male. He deduced from the color of the kid's uniform that it couldn't have been more than five days since he started working at the hospital, which gave him the constant expression of nervousness. Yet strangely, such an ungainly guy reminded Sherlock of the more elegant Moriarty. The detective immediately decided to dislike him. _Gay._ He thought.

The nurse, who introduced himself as Robert, had come in with the wheelchair, but set it aside to help John get dressed –much against the military doctor's protesting. "I can do it on my own," he would say. Robert consented that he'd change by himself and waited for him outside the bathroom, feeling uncomfortable as Sherlock stared him down.

"Why do I need a bloody wheelchair if I can change myself without a problem?" John said once he was out of the bathroom in his own clothes that he had missed oh so much. Next he –without any help- sat himself down on the aforementioned wheelchair and Robert pushed him out of the room with Sherlock following close behind with his bags over his shoulder.

Robert, after successfully delivering John to the lobby, said his goodbyes and left both men there in order to get on with his job (and to get away from Sherlock).

So, the military doctor filled out the hospital release forms and Sherlock took advantage of the moment to go call a cab.

John barely remembered what happened in the next moments: finally getting out of that hospital, smelling fresh air, getting help from his friend into the cab, feeling the texture of leather under his fingertips and finally, an explanation.

An explanation.

Sherlock had found the car ride a perfectly convenient time to tell Watson about the emails, about everything.

And John was in fact, at first, rather curious to listen. But as things progressed, his curiosity began to deteriorate.

"Shit." Was all he said, and it was all Sherlock expected from him.

John suddenly felt the urge to go back to the hospital, to stay in that white room, under the white sheets of a white bed.

_Shit. _

He was the heart.

Why the hell was he the heart? Was he really the great Sherlock Holmes' weakness?

A man like… _him_?

_Now Moriarty will kill me for sure,_ John decided at that moment_. Shit._

Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling that weight slide of his shoulders and unfortunately onto John's. "I'm sorry." Was all he could say.

Sherlock finally fully acknowledged that not everything was under his control. And he hated that deeply.

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><p><strong>A bit of an angsty ending, don't you think? <strong>

**Hmm, well, it's not my favorite chapter, but at least I finally got Watson out of that blasted hospital haha.**

**Next chapter will be updated soon! -D**


	5. Back Home

**So I'm traveling for the week (it says where I am in my profile page, only noticed now) :-P But I'll **_**try**_** to update from wherever I'm going because I'm bringing my laptop with me. (Sorry if I do not update at all)**

**NOTE (14-15/1/12) Rewrote most of the chapter. It was killing me slowly from the inside out to know that I've published something so sloppy for my dear readers. So now to clean up my conscience, I've gone back to revise it and here is a more refined chapter for you to look at. Thank you for being so patient :-P**

**P.S Due to revisions, there is no "spray-painted" wall anymore.**

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><p>It was almost five o'clock in the afternoon when one of the two men finally bothered to check his watch. They were in the kitchen of a simple hotel room, conversing rather casually over a cup of tea.<p>

"This detective annoys me." One of the men muttered while leaning on the counter, setting his warm Earl Grey tea beside him.

The other man cleared his throat and took a sip of his Green tea. He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat there. "No… He intrigues you." He corrected the other while studying the surface of the teacup.

"Perhaps." Jim Moriarty replied, pondering what his colleague had just told him. "Sebastian, are you jealous of Sherlock?" He smirked.

Sebastian Moran frowned at his boss and friend. "Not at all." Jim sighed theatrically in disappointment. Moran ignored him. "But are you really intrigued enough to waste your time to simply toy with him-"

"_I'm not wasting my time!_" Moriarty exclaimed in a fit of annoyance and rage. His mood swings were always unpredictable. "I'm not wasting my time, Sebastian." He said more calmly as he regained his composure. "I'm only waiting for the right moment."

Sebastian folded his hands in front of him as he listened to Jim. The consulting criminal never ceased to amaze and _frighten_ him, even if only a little. "To do what, exactly?"

"Something that you don't need to know now." Moriarty said simply. He didn't notice Moran roll his eyes.

"Is it wise to withhold your plans from me?" Sebastian said nonchalantly (and actually rather sarcastically) as he drank his tea. Unlike his own warm drink, he noticed Moriarty's had already gone quite cold.

Jim shrugged, seemed to have taken the inquiry seriously. "Is it?"

The other man rubbed the bridge of his nose. Was this really the attitude of a serial killer? Oh wait Jim isn't one. He's a consulting criminal. _As if that's any different. _"Don't answer with a question-" He began.

"You know better than to tell me what to do, Sebby." Jim interrupted. His face was dead serious and he was staring right at his friend.

Sebastian furrowed his brows. "Cheers Jim." He raised his empty cup as a sign that it was time to change the subject and set it down again as he sighed.

Moriarty didn't seem to mind and smiled with a bit of satisfaction.

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><p>When John Watson stepped into the flat at 221b Baker Street in the company of his good friend, Sherlock Holmes, for the first time in six days, he'd expected peace and quiet, not endless questions of the landlady, Mrs. Hudson.<p>

"Oh John! John! Are you all right? Feeling any better? How was the hospital? I was so worried! It was so terribly lonely here with you gone and Sherlock looking after you." She finally stopped to catch her breath and put her hand gingerly on the soldier's shoulder, uncertain if that would hurt him or not.

John placed his hand over hers to show that he was well. "I'm fine now, only a bit tired. And the hospital was ok, but I am glad to be home." He gave Mrs. Hudson's hand a light squeeze before letting it go.

Sherlock decided to leave the two to themselves and made his way upstairs to put his stuff back in his room. He stopped for a single minute to consider how he actually missed the place, the tidiness- basically his own things where they should be. Then he went over to John's and placed the bag (and what was left inside it) on the bed. _It will help John's self-esteem if he can put away his own clothes._ Sherlock decided, after recalling that absolutely everything had been done for the soldier back at the hospital.

As he left the room, he proceeded to check his phone because –annoyingly and naturally- there had been series of missed calls from the same number throughout this morning.

Sherlock _had _noticed them at the time when the phone vibrated like mad, but he hadn't been bothered enough to answer then.

It was only now, at 5:30 p.m, that he'd finally decided to phone back the number.

"Sherlock what the hell going on?" Said the angry caller from the cell. "I've been calling you the whole afternoon."

"Did you really miss me that much, Lestrade?" Sherlock said with a bored tone, already knowing the answer but asking it anyways just to annoy him. He ignored John and Mrs. Hudson who were still talking amicably by the entrance and stepped outside the flat, shutting the door behind him. "Anyways, what do you want?" He continued.

The Detective Inspector inhaled and exhaled in annoyance. "Yes Sherlock, I've been waiting all these years to confess my undying love to you- idiot!"

Sherlock smirked. _Yep, just as expected._

Lestrade continued. "Why did you not answer the call? It could've been important!"

"But it isn't."

"Oh but it is-"

"No it isn't."

The call was over.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he placed his phone back in his pocket. How can these people be so persistent and anxious by such _dull_ things? He adjusted the collar of his jacket and headed back in.

There was nobody by the entrance anymore.

As Sherlock made his way upstairs he saw Watson sitting on the couch, reading the newspaper.

"Have you seen Mrs. Hudson?" The detective began.

John looked up from the newspaper, raising an eyebrow at the question. "Said she's gone to her room. Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "No reason. Anyways, find anything interesting on today's paper?"

John shrugged as well. "Nothing much. Just some robbery of items of some house nearby." He said, staring back at the newspaper to check the facts.

"They've got it wrong."

"Sorry?" John replied.

"It wasn't a robbery, but a typical, unsuccessful breaking and entering. Nothing was stolen."

"Did you deduce that by looking at a piece of paper?" John raised both eyebrows, feeling impressed.

"No. I saw –no, _heard_- it actually. On the way back home, I noticed the policemen and journalists by that house-" He sat on the couch next to John's. "The driver's window was open, so I eavesdropped the conversation of the crowd." Sherlock gave Watson his lopsided smile. "Never trust the press. They love exaggerating. In a couple of days they'll change it to what has actually happened."

Watson scoffed, clearly not expecting Sherlock to answer that way. But he shrugged it off. "So," He started a new topic. "What'll we do now about Moriart- ow!" He suddenly groaned, feeling a dull pain coming from his ribs.

Sherlock was on his feet. "I'll get your medicine."

"N-no, don't bother. It's already going away." Said Watson as the soreness eased out of his torso.

The detective only let himself relax when he was certain his friend was really fine and he sat back onto the couch hesitantly. "We'll have to be careful now." He resumed.

"'We'? _I'm_ the wounded one." Watson frowned, misinterpreting his words.

"John, now I'm referring back to the consulting criminal." Watson mouthed a 'oh'. Sherlock carried on. "Moriarty's placed us both in his game again, and we'll have to be much more cautious about where we go for the next days." Sherlock stated firmly.

"Easy enough. It's not like I'm about to go out to the pub and have a drink every night. Doctor said I can't do anything within in a time span of 5-6 weeks." John recalled.

Sherlock smiled all-too-innocently. "Then these belong to me." He picked up a key from his pocket and displayed it in front of Watson.

"Oi! Those are my keys to the house!" He would try to grab them if it weren't for his condition.

"Not anymore."

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><p><strong>(Finally no cliff-hangers!)<strong>

**Ok, much more light-hearted than I wanted it to be. Oh well. Glad to have gotten this chapter out of my chest at least.**

**Cheers.**


	6. Time is Ticking

**Reichenbach Falls… Oh don't even get me started. My torn heart is still healing, and my tears are still drying up.**

**On another note, sorry I've ****abandoned you all (kidding)**** disappeared for a moment! I was just tired and busing with all the tourism going on here. But I won't create more excuses. I should've updated sooner :-(**

**And on even another note, I'm still going to refer to James as 'Jim' in the beginning of this chapter because I always did throughout the story and because I don't think Sherlock knew his name was actually "James" until RBF, unless I heard it wrong all this time *gasp***

**Enough of me babbling, onto the story!**

It was 9:00 'o clock p.m, 5 days after Sherlock and Watson arrived home, 13 days in total since the hospital, and 3 hours left until it was officially tomorrow.

Sherlock pranced back and forth in the flat's living room and Watson sat on the couch, staring at his friend while he moved about to and fro. The way he walked around was highly unnerving. Sherlock finally spoke, "Did Moriarty tell you anything important before he let you go? Anything at all, John?" Holmes suddenly turned to Watson and gave him a quick shake. "Addresses, dates?" He tried.

"Hey, easy!" John frowned, both in irritation and pain, wiggling slowly away from Sherlock. "And no, he didn't say anything of the sort, I don't think. Also, Moriarty only spoke to me when one of his men brought a camera with him…" The soldier sighed when memories flashed back into his mind.

Sherlock shook his head. He grabbed his violin by the bookshelf and started to strum it with his index finger. _What've you got up your sleeve, Jim?_ _What are you waiting for? _He furrowed his eyebrows closely together.

This 'game' of the criminal now proved to be rather annoying and a bit challenging. Sherlock wasn't sure if deep down inside he liked that or not. He stopped playing and placed the violin on the table. Then he closed his eyes and had his hands underneath his chin, with his fingertips against each other, as always. The man decided that these were matters to be thought about in silence.

John looked over at him for a minute and then, confused as he was, decided to go for his computer, which was on the table. He turned it on and heard someone at the entrance of the living room.

It was Mrs. Hudson who had gone in to check on them, John carefully turned his torso around to see.

"You all right?" John whispered to her. He respected that the detective by his side wanted silence.

The landlady shook her head and gestured with her hands that she was fine. "Just wondering what you were up to. Seems that you've both been home all week." She whispered as well.

The doctor nodded. They _had_ been home all these days. Now it finally occurred to him how strange that sounded, but he mentally frowned and shooed the thought away. "We're good." Were the only words that escaped his mouth.

Somehow, Mrs. Hudson understood that it wasn't the time for more questions. She'd seen how concentrated Holmes looked and smiled at Watson. She waved her hand and left.

John returned to his original position, and because he'd been momentarily distracted by the landlady, he didn't notice what was right on the screen as soon as it became brighter. "Jesus. Sherlock-" His eyes widened as he whispered the other man's name.

"Update your blog silently John. I'm busy." Sherlock interrupted him quietly.

John kept his voice low, "Sherlock, you should-"

"John, not now."

"Sherlock, I'm trying to tell you-"

"Shush, John. I think I'm on to something-"

"It's him: Moriarty!" Watson now raised his voice. Sherlock immediately opened his eyes and rushed to John's side. It was another email, right on the soldier's desktop, waiting to be opened. "He's sent it to me. Why _me_?" John said to himself.

Sherlock considered those questions, but only for a moment. "Click on it." He told the soldier, who silently obeyed. What they saw inside the message was only a single image. It displayed the opening of a catacomb. The picture was taken at night and there was a message spray-painted on the wall in red, visible due to the camera's flash: '_Tick-tock, go look at the clock. Waiting for you two, lovebirds._ _Bring no weapons._ _Or else BOOM!'_

Watson narrowed his eyes at the image, studying both the message itself and the term 'lovebirds'. He rolled his eyes. But at the mention of the word 'boom' he became serious and worried again.

Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't have to analyze the picture a second longer. "It's a simple threat." He stated. "We go there or we die."

Watson's worry now turned into panic. "Wha- die? But that's the entrance to the Camden catacombs! We can't go there, _literally_!" John turned to Sherlock. "And what about the 'boom', Sherlock? That means Moriarty's been here –in the flat- before, and he's placed bombs all over the rooms-"

"Calm down, John." He said firmly. "I know what's wrong, I've noticed it already. No, I haven't done anything about it, because I know it would've been useless. If we go to the meeting place, then there'll be no bombing." For the tiniest moment, Sherlock felt doubt in his words, but he hid them, for the sake of John.

Watson lowered his eyes, hesitantly accepting his friend's explanation. "But what of the catacombs?"

"We definitely won't be using public transportation to get there, not at midnight anyway." Sherlock said, picking up his violin's bow.

"Midnight?" He heard John repeat with confusion.

Sherlock sighed. "Look-" He pointed to the image. "The shines around the spray-painted letters tell us that it was still rather wet when the picture was taken. Speaking of which, the photo is set during the nighttime, no later than 9:00 but no earlier than 8:00." John opened his mouth but Sherlock practically spoke for him. "'How'd you know the picture was taken today?' The fact that Moriarty has only sent us the email now, and to you especially, can only mean that he is eager to see us in a few hours, which will ultimately be tomorrow." Sherlock paused to breathe. "Interesting, though, he told me to figure things out myself, yet he's still helping me…" He muttered, moving away to sit back down.

John, noting that it wasn't going to be of any further use, took one last look at the image before shutting down his computer. "Guess I'll take a nap." He announced idly. He knew Sherlock had returned being the statue he was a couple of minutes ago, so he shrugged and closed his eyes.

Time passed by slowly.

Really slowly.

"It's a ten minute car ride from here to there." The soldier woke up with the voice of Sherlock, who was talking to his skull. "About 19 minute of bus riding, and 35 minutes walking."

John closed his eyes again. But the shuffling of clothing and a sharp inhale brought him back to his senses again.

"Watson."

The soldier opened his eyes yet again irritably. Yet he saw the expression in his friend's face and knew what it meant. _Time to go._ John, as he'd done so many times before, sighed, but really deeply this time. Then he stood and stretched himself carefully. "Well, let's get going then. No time to lose, like you said." He stated robotically.

Sherlock noted he was putting up a strong demeanor because in reality, he was afraid. "John," He called out to the soldier who ignored him.

"Let's get this done with, Sherlock. I hear the ticking already."

Sherlock walked forward and gently grabbed his friend by the arm. "John. Nothing's going to happen. But," He looked at him up and down, and stopped his eyes at his ribcage. He's not even done healing yet. "I'm sorry you have to be dragged into this as well."

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. He was apologizing? "Sherlock, don't worry about me." He said, knowing where the detective was staring. "Barely hurts anymore. I'll be able to catch up." John hoped Sherlock would stop acting so off character. But he was ever grateful his sociopathic friend was concerned with his wellbeing.

He stood still in the middle of the living room and watched Sherlock grab his coat, opened the table drawer for two flashlights, and finally snatched the scarf. The detective passed John his own coat for him. "Thanks." He said. John also noticed how Sherlock didn't grab any weapons. He bit his lower lip. None of this was fair.

But Moriarty was having fun, so who cared? John contemplated with sarcasm. He also thought he heard the ticking stop when he walked out of the flat.

**Finally the sixth chapter! I wanted to end it with a cliffhanger. Did it work? **

**Also, I feel as if I'm off character here, hope not.**

**By the way, Camden catacombs do indeed exist for those of you who didn't know. Took Google mapping, a tiny bit of research and patience to figure out that it was actually ten minutes away (by car-ride) from Baker Street *fangirl squeel haha* I was so surprised, because I had chosen to use Camden catacombs randomly :-P **

**P.S, travelling back to Brazil the whole day tomorrow :-D Wish me luck! And I wish you all a good reading!**


	7. Run Little Rabbit

Watson was having hard time catching up with Holmes, who was walking ahead of him. The soldier was trying his best not to let it be evident, but the detective was already aware.

"No rush." Said he, placing his hands in his coat pocket, taking long, fast strides towards their meeting place.

"I'm not in a hurry." Watson responded, walking quickly –almost jogging- behind but always slowing down when starting to feel dull pains at his side.

Sherlock breathed in and out. They were getting closer, around 10 more minutes.

He stared up at the starry, black sky, wondering why today was so much colder than usual.

"How'll we make it inside?" Watson then asked, finally a few feet closer to the detective, who removed his hands from his pocket to brush some strands of curly black hair off his face.

"It'll be easier than you think, John."

The entrance of Camden catacombs wasn't hard to spot. Nor were the guards around the area. Both the detective and the soldier crouched behind a wall near the entrance and Sherlock furrowed his brows as he designed a quick and simple plan to evade the guards. Once he'd come up with something decent, he searched the ground to see if he could find a heavy object and satisfied himself with a rock.

At that moment, he'd wondered how Moriarty had managed to spray paint the wall with the surveillance around.

"What are you going to do with that?" John eyed his friend curiously, interrupting him from his thoughts.

"You'll see in a minute. Can you run?" Sherlock asked with urgency.

John nodded with hesitance. "Yeah, yeah, I guess I can, not as fast though. Why?"

"That'll be enough. We'll be going in as soon as the guards turn away. Prepare yourself." With that said, Sherlock stood carefully and aimed the stone away from the entrance. He tossed it with strength and it travelled a great deal before landing loudly on the other side.

As expected, the guards called out for each other and went to check out what had happened. This had been too easy.

Then the men made a run for it –as fast as they could manage- to the dark entrance of the Camden catacombs, and luckily, made it in safely.

John leaned on the wall for a second to catch his breath. His ribs hurt like hell.

"Watson, let's go." Sherlock turned on his flashlight and John did the same.

"I understand." They had to keep moving, or else the guards would find them.

Further inside, Sherlock finally stopped and turned to John. "You all right?"

"I'm fine." _Not really_. John tried to keep his best face on. He wished he'd at least brought his medicine with him.

"Here, have this." Sherlock removed from his pocket a white little plastic bottle.

"You have my medications? When'd you get them?" Watson asked, surprised and thankful. He took the bottle from the detective and swallowed one of the large pills.

"Grabbed them while you where sleeping. I'd thought you'd need them." Sherlock said with a subtle gratification.

Watson smiled, noticing how much the pain had eased. "Thank you." He said, shoving the plastic bottle down his own pant's front pocket.

Sherlock returned the smile briskly and turned serious again. He realized he wasn't sure where he should go. Maybe analyzing the footprints on the ground would get him somewhere, but there were none. "Where to?" He asked himself.

"Sherlock, look!" John announced suddenly. He pointed towards the wall in front of them. There, big enough to see from a distance, but small enough to pass unnoticed was a red arrow pointing towards the left. "Do you think it's-"

Sherlock walked closer to the painted indicator, and ran his hands over the surface. The paint was still wet. "Interesting. Come along John." He shouted, turning to the appointed direction. Watson followed close behind, puddles of water splashing when he trudged over them.

After a while, the silence began to bother John. It was cold, it was dark, damp and it smelled… wet. But the quietness was driving him mad. "So, are you planning to tell Greg?" He said idly, not even sure if Sherlock had heard him or not.

"Lestrade?" Watson saw Sherlock shrug. "Depends whether or not I'll feel like getting the Scotland Yard involved, which is unlikely."

John couldn't help scoff, and laugh, despite the morbidness of the situation. "You're an idiot." He said.

"Well then, aren't we all?"

In total, the men had seen 7 arrows since the first one: four lefts and three rights. And after about 20 minutes, they'd finally found themselves in a much wider tunnel, with pitch-black darkness behind the arches that led to other areas.

Here then saw a red target sign right in the middle of the ground.

"We've arrived." Sherlock whispered to John.

"Indeed you have! A bit late, but I don't mind!" Said a cheerful voice from the dark. It sent unwelcomed shivers up Watson's spine. Suddenly, sidelights of the tunnel turned on, three on each side. The whole place was now brownish orange.

Moriarty walked over to the target sign from the other side, all alone. "Glad you could make it. Like my spray-painting?" He said, showing everyone the empty can in his red-dyed hand. John took a few steps backwards and Sherlock stared angrily. He placed his hands in his coat's pocket.

"Now, shall we carry on what we're here to do? I'm so excited!" Moriarty discarded the can and rocked back and forth impatiently on his feet.

"Do? Do what?" Watson looked at Sherlock, expecting answers. But the detective's eyes were locked on his enemy.

"Doesn't he know? Sherlock here, is going to burn his heart awa-"

"Stop." Sherlock interfered.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked, keeping his voice firm. But he was completely at a loss and had a really, _really_ bad feeling. "Sherlock-"

"John." Sherlock started, turning towards Watson. "I've received another email, also at the time when you were asleep." Never before has the man looked so desperate in the soldier's eyes. "I have to kill you."

Watson staggered and almost fell. "No- that's not-"

Moriarty laughed, causing John to be alert again. "Go on little rabbit, go on and run. You've got two minutes head start to get as far as you can." He said. "You'll all go an a merry chase, and I'll be around, making sure you_ stick to rules_." His face went dark and serious, and the dark lighting only made him more frightening.

"John, run." Sherlock said sternly.

And that's just what John did.

Ignoring the hurting ribs, shaking hands, blurry vision, and ignoring the fact that he'd seen Moriarty hand Sherlock a gun from the corner of his eyes, he ran.

This was no game.

It was a bloody awful nightmare.


	8. Child's Play

**Oh, this is where it gets a bit angsty/dark. You have been warned! But I know you love the thrill anyway :-D**

**This chapter killed me. I didn't know my mind could get so… disturbing.**

**Enjoy your reading!**

**P.S I've edited the last half. Was bothering me, but now it seems a little better. **

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><p><em>No human being should have to run through this many tunnels in a lifetime.<em> Thought John as he ran through the catacombs, shaking flashlight in hand. That's when the place began to echo with the sounds of Moriarty's shout. He realized then that had been Sherlock's cue.

The real chase began now.

But Watson's damned half-fractured, sore ribs were slowing him down, and he was quickly getting out of breath. Where was that medicine of his? It would help soothe down the pain. He rummaged in his pockets for it, and sighed in relief when he found the plastic bottle in his front left coat pocket. John located a dark spot and turned his flashlight off. To stop now and take his medicine would be a completely risky, ridiculous and stupid idea altogether. But if he wanted to continue running and therefore _living_, it would be a necessary action. With shaky, weak hands he felt for the bottle's lid, unfastened it, took a pill out (dropped a few in the process), and swallowed it. Then, after many attempts, he put the lid back on and hurriedly placed it back in his pocket.

With a small percentage of newfound energy and less pain, he turned his flashlight on and resumed the running.

Sherlock was nearing him. John could hear his footsteps and everything due to the acoustics of the catacombs. And it was only a matter of time before he reached a dead end and found himself trapped between a stone wall and a gun.

A whispered voice stopped him in his tracks.

"John!" The detective hadn't seen him yet, but judging by the breathing, he was close. "John!" He whispered loudly again.

But John didn't answer; he was too busy trying to distance himself from the man who'd been ordered to kill him. It was his best friend, god damn it. _But it's better that he get the job done than Moriarty. Well, morbid thoughts for morbid moments._

From the corner of his eye, John saw the light of Sherlock's flashlight come into view. His heart beat faster and he blinked away unwanted tears that threatened to spill.

And he'd also been too busy to notice the wall in front of him.

With a muffled _umph _he hit the stones and scraped his forehead. Cursing under his breath he was afraid he knew what this meant.

Dead end.

No openings to the left, and none to the right either. He turned his flashlight off with a false hope that maybe the darkness would help him.

Sherlock's light eventually found him and immediately John felt as if he was on stage, with the spotlight upon him.

The detective, who noticed his friend was struggling to keep his eyes open, lowered his flashlight.

For a good five minutes or so, the men stood in silence.

"So is this the end?" John Watson scoffed, raising his arms as a gesture of 'I give up'. "Go ahead and shoot. Damn it all. Donovan was right."

"Right?"

"She said that one day, you'd be the one who provided the dead body. Killed someone."

"John, you don't understand-"

"No Sherlock, _you_ don't understand!" Watson tried not to shout, his ribs started hurting again. "Take a look at where we are! We are in the middle of a goddamn labyrinth. Moriarty's here somewhere, listening to us, and you're going to point a gun at my forehead." He said darkly, "You're playing his game Sherlock, and he's going to win."

Holmes' eyes widened, but he regained his composure. "John, shut up and let me explain."

"Oh go ahead. It's either that or an explosion at Baker Street." John leaned on the wall behind him and ran his hand over his face, taking deep breaths of that moldy air.

"First off, calm yourself. Second of all-" The detective began to whisper, walking closer.

John stood straighter. "Don't. I don't want you near me." He warned. Sherlock sighed, and placed the gun on the ground.

"Hear me out Watson. There is no bomb."

The soldier frowned. "What?"

"Well, not at the flat. On you… Again. But, I have this under control. What I have to do is just get it off you." Sherlock explained very quietly, now next to the soldier.

"But- but the ticking! I heard ticking-"

Holmes interrupted him as he put his index finger to his lips, and studied his… ear.

John did nothing. He felt very disturbed. He didn't know what to make of this situation anymore.

"Ah, there." The detective exclaimed, putting the flashlight in his mouth and picking something off of the backside of John's ear, right where his hairline could hide it from untrained eyes. For some reason it felt like taking a splinter off the side of his head.

Watson discovered that what was on him was indeed a small device, which looked exactly like a very small, thin thumbtack, only transparent. Watson rubbed the itchy, bleeding prick where that _thing_ had been.

Sherlock took the flashlight off his mouth. "It was placed on you during your time in Moriarty's company. How do I know? I've seen it the day you arrived. They placed it there in one of the times you've blacked out, clearly. And the ticking you heard, it was coming from this." Sherlock held it up. The ticking began again.

"But why'd you never tell me about it?" Watson asked hesitantly, staring back and forth at the device and his friend.

"You'd have ripped it off and killed us all." Sherlock deadpanned. "But here, Jim wants you alive, so I can take your life instead, as you've seen. Now, if I click it here-" The detective pressed the top of the thumbtack-like bomb and held it for exactly seven seconds, "the ticking will stop. And the bomb will be ours for the use. I'll only have to click it again for the same amount of time and attach it to something so it'll work."

"But why did I hear the ticking at all?"

"That's not important at the moment." Holmes placed the small bomb in his pocket.

"Ok…" Watson closed his eyes and opened them again only a few seconds later, taking a deep breath. "So what happens now?"

"We wait." Sherlock looked around. "I'm sure Moriarty had been expecting this. It couldn't have been this easy." He bent down to pick up the gun.

"Oh it's true. Well done, Sherly!" Moriarty's high-pitched loud voice echoed through the walls. Sherlock growled at his nickname. "You somewhat managed to save your pet. But you still broke the rules. But I think I'll give you another chance."

Now Moriarty appeared in front of them, his own gun in hand. "Here's a new rule: you pull the trigger, or I will."

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><p><strong>Ohoho cliffhangers, you know I love those :-P<strong>

**Just when you thought, "Oh it's finally over" I managed to continue the drama for a while longer *insert evil laugh***

**Anyways I am very sleepy! Good night everyone!**


	9. Guns, Flashlights and Death

**I wanted to take this chance to explain this little bomb device I created. I'm not a weapons (nor bombs) expert, nor am I very good at explaining, so bear with me (if you're interested in the device).**

**To activate and deactivate it, a person needs to click and hold the bomb's thumbtack like top for seven seconds. If activated, all one has to do is prick it on something (or someone), and wait for (again) seven seconds, till it goes off. Unless, someone deactivates it, obviously.**

**Now, the bomb's explosion is only strong enough to incinerate things (though the explosions cause people and things to burn faster than a normal fire). And it does not harm others unless they are standing very close. **

**I hope that makes sense, and I hope the chapter's alright :-P **

**P.S. This might be the last chapter… So I wanted to take this time and thank you all for reading this story, reviewing, faving and everything else. You have no idea what that meant to me. It has encouraged me to keep the story going for nine chapters! I've never written a story up to _nine_ chapters! You have my gratitude. I love you all.**

**Onto the story! It has been a fun ride.**

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><p>"Oh, come on! It shouldn't be that hard, honey!" Moriarty whined. He cocked his gun. "I'm waiting."<p>

John turned to Sherlock, who was staring at the ground. There was a moment in silence before he heard his friend sigh sadly.

The detective raised his gun, still not saying a word, pointing it straight at Watson's chest. A quiet laugh of joy escaped Moriarty's lips.

"Finally!" The criminal said.

The soldier's eyes widened. "What are you-"

"It's either me, or him, John. It has to be done." He inhaled sharply, and exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock pulled the trigger.

Watson's body hit the wall and collapsed to the ground, unmoving.

The detective lowered the gun, breathing heavily, and Moriarty's happy face came into view. "Well, wasn't that easy? You did it quicker than I would." He said, clapping his hands. "Now it's just you and I-"

Holmes grabbed the consulting criminal by the collar of his expensive suit and pulled him close, still aware the man had a loaded gun in hand, but he did too anyway. "Jim-"

"It's actually James." Moriarty said, uncaring of the way he was being handled.

Sherlock knitted his eyebrow but ignored his comment. "Watson-"

"Yeah, he's dead. You killed him, and now you want to kill me. Sherlock-" He moaned, "That's _so_ boring. You disappointed me. Sebastian!"

A man with a loaded revolver came into view. "You called?" He said, his voice rough, pointing his weapon at the detective, who immediately let go of the criminal.

"So you brought company." Sherlock muttered, unsurprised.

"'Course I did, he's my own Watson." James turned to Sebastian. "Take care of him, will you? I've got a plane to catch." Then patting Sherlock's arm gently, he said, "I really wanted to see you again, but this is the end. Sorry!" With that said, he sauntered away and winked to Sebastian on his way out. "I'll miss you!" His voice echoes through the walls.

"Well, Mr. Holmes. Seems like I have to do my job." The assassin said, raising his firearm.

The detective sighed and dropped his own weapon. "Go on." He sighed, raising his arms up over his head.

Sebastian Moran raised an eyebrow, wasted no time and did as he was told. He pointed the gun at Sherlock's forehead. At the moment he was about to shoot, Sherlock turned the only light source -his flashlight- off. Everything went dark.

The sound of the gun carried on loudly through the tunnels for a good minute.

In the darkness, Moran felt something prick in his arm. He gasped and pulled his arm close, trying to feel what had injured him.

He hesitantly decided it was something like a small thumbtack, which emitted a low ticking sound.

"Oh shi-" With confusion, Sebastian stepped backwards. He tried getting it off but it was too late- he was kicked on the stomach very hard. It made Moran stumble out and away of the tunnel.

The assassin saw the place light up for a split second, everything dyed in orange and red. He saw Sherlock standing under the arch of the tunnel, his hand over his shoulder, flashlight back on.

Then everything went black for Sebastian Moran.

Sherlock Holmes removed his hand from his bleeding injury, analyzing the wound. Moran's lost bullet had ricocheted from the wall and grazed his shoulder.

But that wasn't important.

Sherlock ran over to Watson, who was face down on that dirty ground and turned him around, searching his torso. Then he found it, a deep-sedating dart. Nobody in that darkness would've been able to tell the difference from that and a bullet. Sherlock stared at it closely. He'd replaced his first bullet with the dart during the chase. It was something he'd made himself when he was bored and thought it'd be useful today. _I was lucky…._

Sherlock Holmes slapped John's face and shook him hard. "Wake up."

The detective saw his friend's eyes twitch back to life. For a couple minutes, John concentrated on only that: getting his eyes open. He muttered a few unintelligible things, and after a while, came to his senses. The soldier stared, completely clueless, at his friend and at the dart he was holding. "What happened?" His voice sounded weak and tired. The effects of the sedative still hadn't worn off.

"I'll explain to you everything when we get home. But for now we have to worry about getting outside." Sherlock helped John, who really wanted to go back to sleep, up and put his arm over his body so that he could lean on him.

"This is nostalgic." John murmured quietly.

The men didn't even notice they'd left John's flashlight behind and walked at a slow pace until they reached the entrance.

They've made it out easily. The guards weren't anywhere to be seen. But then again it was 4:00 am, and the sun was about to rise, making the sky look a pale gray color.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson genuinely thought they wouldn't see the light of day.

Back on the streets, Sherlock had called for a taxi and ordered the cabbie to drive them home. On the ride to Baker Street John slept soundly (and eventually fell on Sherlock's shoulder, where he remained for the rest of the ride) and Sherlock couldn't help it and napped for a while too.

Holmes wondered how James Moriarty would react when he realized that the Sebastian guy had died. And he was sure that the chances of surviving their next meeting would be even less.

But for now, they were going home.

It was over.

Oh, how he needed more nicotine patches!

* * *

><p><strong>Oops, character death, should've warned that in the beginning, but I didn't want to ruin the surprise, but then again, it does say "Death" in the chapter's title. Poor Moran! Someone had to die, and it happened to be you... :-P<strong>

****Yep, this is probably the last chapter, lets see how things go.****

**I will never be able to express my thanks properly for all your kind words and support *hugs everyone*! **

**I had a lot of fun (and stress) writing the story! I'll miss not having something to update :-P**

**So, see you all on the next story! I wonder what it'll be about….**

**Cheers!**


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